The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (40 page)

“It’s all the same to me, Ruby. Champion or no champion, I’ve been giving the fans a run for their money. I’m going to keep it up, even if McGowan does get the credit.”

“You know, son, you’ve changed some lately, do you realize that?”

“How d’you mean?”

“You stopped Porky Dobro in the second round last night. The last time they fought, McGowan needed seven rounds to get him, and had quite a brawl. And Dobro stayed the distance with him twice before, once in Reno, and again in Pittsburgh. You’ve improved a lot.”

T
HERE WAS
a sharp rap at the door, and Ryan looked up, surprised. When he opened the door it was to admit Bat McGowan, Tony Mada, and a very excited Rack Hendryx.

“All right, Ryan, you were smart enough to tip me off to this ghost fighter business. Now give me an out!”

“What’s up?”

“Almost everything. Major Kenworthy called me this morning and told me to come to the Commission offices, and right away. I went, and they want to know why McGowan is gallivanting around the country, knocking off setups and not defending his title. They say the six months are up, and they want him to defend his title at once. They had Dickerson, the promoter, up there, and had papers all ready to sign, and wanted to know if I had any objections to letting the champ defend his title against Hamp Morgan—and in just six weeks! McGowan here can’t get in shape to fight in that time!”

“Hamp Morgan, eh?” Ryan frowned. “He’s a tough egg, and been comin’ up fast the past few months. Can’t you stall a little?”

“Stall? What d’you think I’ve been tryin’ to do? They say the champ’s in great shape, they saw him beat Dobro and a couple of other guys. There’s a lot of talk now, and they say it will draw like a million bucks. And when we got the fight for the title, we posted ten thousand bucks in agreeing to defend the title in six months!”

“Why not let Barney fight?” Ryan asked softly.

“Malone? Say, what are we talkin’ about? Hamp Morgan is no setup!” McGowan snarled angrily. “Think I want that punk to lose my title for me? You’re nuts!”

“Yeah? What about Porky Dobro? How long did it take you to stop him last time? And did he or did he not bust you around plenty?” Ryan demanded. “Maybe Barney can’t take it—but how many of these bums been touchin’ him? Well, I’ll tell you—none of them have! He was hurt on the ship workin’ his way over from South Africa and hasn’t been able to take ’em around the head since. But he can box, an’ he can hit.”

“Maybe we don’t have a choice, Ruby,” Hendryx said thoughtfully. “Bat is hog-fat. He’d be twenty pounds over Malone’s weight easy.”

“Hey!” the champ scowled at Hendryx.

“You are! You’d be in a hell of a spot if the Commission put you on a scale. I ain’t made much money with this title, an’ I can’t afford to gamble. It looks to me like Barney has to fight Morgan.”

Bat turned suddenly, facing Malone. “Well, what d’you say about it? Are you game? Or are you yella?”

Barney Malone got up slowly. For a minute he stared coldly at Bat McGowan. Then he turned to face Hendryx. “You’re the one that has it to lose. Sure, I’ll fight Morgan. I’ve been playin’ champ a month now, an’ I like it!”

“Kind of cocky, ain’t you?” McGowan said suddenly, his eyes hard. “It seems to me you’re gettin’ pretty smart for a guy with a glass chin! Why, I just brushed you with a left and flattened you the first time I ever laid eyes on you!”

“Fight him yourself!” Barney snapped back.

“Forget it,” Hendryx barked. “Sit down, Bat, an’ shut up. What’re you always gettin’ hard around Barney for? He’s been doin’ your dirty work, and makin’ money for all of us.”

“Why? Because he’s yella, because he’s too pretty to suit me! Because he thinks he’s a nice boy! Why, I’d—”

“You’d nothing!” hissed Hendryx. “If you were just another pug I’d have your knees broken—I’d have you whacked! You’re the pretty face around here, and you’re lettin’ someone else do all the work. Now everybody listen close; Malone, you win this fight or I’ll make you sorry…and Bat, you stop drinkin’ and get yourself in shape! If you don’t make me some money I’m gonna let you swing, understand?”

F
OR A LONG TIME
after they’d left, Malone stared out the window into the gathering darkness. Ryan walked up finally and stood by his chair.

After a moment—“Well, kid,” he began, “we’ve come a long way together. When I first spotted you in that gym, I knew you had it. If you don’t get careless, none of these punks are goin’ to hit you. But just remember, Barney—the champ knows, see? An’ if you ever let McGowan start a fight with you, he’ll try to kill you!”

“I know. Hell, Ruby, everything looked good when I left Capetown. I’d had seventeen fights, and won them all by knockouts. Then I had that fall, and the doc told me I could never fight again. But I have to fight. It’s all I know. I was stopped twice in the gym, and then practically knocked out that day by McGowan.”

“Ain’t there anything a doctor can do?” Ryan asked.

“Doesn’t seem so. But this doc told me I might get over it, in time. An’ Ruby, do you remember the Dobro battle? He hit me twice on the head, an’ though one of them hurt, I didn’t go down.”

S
IXTY THOUSAND PEOPLE
crowded the vast open-air arena to see Bat McGowan defend his heavyweight title against Hamp Morgan, the Butte, Montana, miner. For only six weeks the publicity barrage had been turned on the title fight, but it had been enough. Morgan’s steady string of victories and the champion’s ten quick knockouts in as many exhibitions had furnished the heat for the sportswriters. They all agreed that it should be a great battle. Morgan had lost but two decisions, and these almost three years before. The champion looked great in training, and everyone marveled at his recent record even during a long period of dissipation. The betting was three-to-one on the champ.

In Hamp Morgan’s dressing room “Dandy Jim” Kirby was giving his fighter a few last-minute tips. Salty Burke, Morgan’s sparring partner and second, whom Barney Malone had knocked out on the day Ryan spotted him, stood nearby. Porky Dobro had dropped in to wish Morgan the best of luck and a better “break” than he himself had got. Though they had all been competitors at one time or another, there was one thing they could all agree on: No one liked the champ.

“You know, Hamp,” Dobro mused, “it’s funny, but Bat eased up on me in the last scrap we had. He was boxing like a million, had me right on the spot after I got hurt, and then offered to let me ride. If I hadn’t known him so well, I’d have sworn there was something crooked about the deal. McGowan has a trick of cussing a guy in the clinches, an’ a funny way of biting his lip, an’ that night he didn’t do either!”

Burke looked up and grinned. “Maybe Hendryx stumbled on that punk I fought a few months ago.”

Kirby looked queerly at Burke, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What d’you mean, the guy you fought?”

“Why, several months ago I boxed a guy who looked enough like McGowan to be his twin. A fella named Barney Malone, from Johannesburg, South Africa. He stopped me quick. Hit like a mule, he did, but I’d seen him get stopped in the gym a couple of times by small boys, and figured I could take him.”

“And you say he looked like the champ?” Kirby said thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Burke agreed. “An’ say, I hadn’t remembered it before, but I seen him talkin’ to Ryan one time….”

“Did he sound like he was from South Africa, you know, did he have an accent?” Kirby asked Dobro.

“Had the mouthpiece in—he sounded like a guy talkin’ past the world’s biggest chaw.”

“You say he was stopped by somebody?”

“Yeah, hit on the head, both times. Back around the ear. I thought I could cop him myself, but he was in better shape, an’ he never give me no chance.”

N
EARLY RING TIME
. “Dandy Jim” Kirby walked slowly down the aisle toward his ringside seat, a very thoughtful man. Kirby was nobody’s fool. He had been around the fight racket as a kid, and he’d heard the smart fight managers talk, guys who’d been in the business since the days of Gans and Wolgast. He knew Rack Hendryx well enough to know he was no more honest than he had to be. Somehow—He paused momentarily, running his long fingers through his slightly graying hair.

Now, let’s see: McGowan, nasty as they make ’em, wins the title by a kayo. He is a slugger with a chunk of dynamite in each mitt, and plenty tough. He starts drinking and chasing women. Then, about two months later, he suddenly starts a campaign of exhibition fights.

McGowan carouses, and yet is always in perfect shape. Tonight his face is puffy and eyes hollow—tomorrow he is lean, hard, and clear-eyed. There is another heavyweight who looks like McGowan, and Ruby Ryan knows them both….

Kirby dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his toe. Then he turned and walked back toward the dressing room. His eyes were bright. He met Hamp Morgan coming toward the ring.

“Listen, Hamp,” he said quickly. “When you go out there tonight, I want you to hit this guy on the ear, see? Hit him, an’ hit him hard, get me?”

F
OR YEARS
, fans were to remember that fight. It was one for the books. For four rounds, it was one of the most terrific slugging matches ever seen, with both boys moving fast and slamming away with a will. It was a bitter, desperate fight, and when the bell rang for the fifth, the crowd was on the edge of their seats, every man hoarse from yelling.

The “champion” stopped Morgan’s first rush with a lancing left jab. A hard right to the body followed, and Morgan backed up, taking two lefts as he was going away. Then he lunged in, whipped both hands for the body, and then missed a long overhand right to the head. The “champion” backed away and Morgan followed. Suddenly Barney Malone stopped, feinted a left, and shook Morgan to his heels with a driving right to the jaw. Hamp Morgan dropped swiftly to a crouch, and suddenly, so quickly that the eye could not follow, he whipped over a terrific right to the head that crashed against Malone’s ear! With a sound, the “champion” pitched forward on his face and lay still.

Amid the roar of the crowd, the referee’s hand began to rise and fall, slowing tolling off the seconds. In the ringside seat, Rack Hendryx sat tensely, swearing under his breath in a low, vicious monotone. Ryan leaned over the edge of the ring, fists clenched, almost breathless.

Kirby, the championship almost in his hands, was watching Hendryx, and then his eyes slid over to Tony Mada.

The crowd was in a frenzy, but Mada was cold and silent. He was not looking at the ring; his gaze was fastened upon “Dandy Jim” Kirby. Kirby felt his mouth go dry with fear. Then, amid the roaring of the crowd, the bell sounded. Probably not more than a dozen people heard it, but it sounded at the count of nine.

The first thing Barney Malone understood was the dull roar in his ears and the bright lights over the ring. He felt someone anxiously shaking his head, and a whiff of smelling salts nearly tore his skull off.

T
HEN
—“Come on, son, you got to snap out of it!” Ryan was pleading. “Come on!” As Malone’s eyes opened, Ryan leaned forward, whispering, “Now’s your chance! Go out there like you were gone, see? Stagger out, act like you don’t know where you are. Then let him have it, just as hard as you can throw it, get me?”

The sound of the bell was lost in the howl of the crowd, and Hamp Morgan was crossing the ring, tearing in, punching like a madman, throwing a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts that had Barney Malone reeling like a drunken man; reeling, but just enough to keep most of Morgan’s blows pounding the air. And then, like a shot from the blue, his right streaked out and crashed against Morgan’s chin with the force of a thunderbolt. Hamp Morgan spun halfway around and dropped at full length on the canvas!

M
ALONE CRAWLED
stiffly out of bed and sat staring across the room. One eye was swollen, and he felt gingerly of his ear. Thoughtfully, but cautiously, he worked his jaw around to find the sore spots. There were plenty.

He was shaving when suddenly the sound of the key in the lock made him look up. It was Ruby Ryan.